invisible rain

Poem by Madhura Banerjee

I have seen only the odd woman or two
Style the kodava saree to perfection
In the same way, only some things in this world
Can carry the fabric of 4 AM with ease –
Train stations, their lonesome platforms and nomadic mist,
And my bus from Pondicherry, that stopped at KR Puram,
parked against a blue-grey November, far away
in Bangalore, where anything could happen,
where everything should happen
This being the hour of journeys, and this
This shade of golden-pink, the skin
peeled off the highway from a country singer’s dream
Sparrows mark the chorus –
this bridge in A minor, night becoming day,
this transition between my two worlds,
The thunder clouds seizing my palms
through the grilles of this North Calcutta window,
Dragging them through the watercolour mess of Yelahanka,
where the rain kissed your skin differently –
unpredictable, Levi’s blue, casual –
I am two different women in these two different cities,
Only I miss you more in one
Most other things stay the same, old friend –
Whether beheld from my grandfather’s verandah
Or from the roof of my Indiranagar flat –
Lone taxis backing into alleys,
Tamil songs and your name on my phone,
And rain so light that you cannot see but only hear it

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editor's note

Volume 09

clay | chlorophyll | crimson

Grass is green where you water it. LC’s words float along over Misch’s guitar. It’s a phrase that feels so obvious, and I’m sure those who tend to gardens know this more than most, but it seems to land more than before. The impact noticeable, memorable, echoing through my being. Perhaps we’re ingrained to think it’s greener elsewhere. This patch is the problem and not whether we’re watering it. The key is in the watering. How we go about this practice is what defines our patch of grass. No matter where we go, our patch is, perhaps, the same. Some attributes and characteristics have been changed but the essence is the same: Us.

Stepping into Volume 09 of imprint, marks our third year. I am learning that this patch of green that we have been tending to for the last several years will mould, shift, and sculpt. This depends on how we water it and allow it to take its own shape. It has already happened in wonderfully unexpected ways. There is only so much structure or shape we can predetermine. Beyond that, it will absorb what it needs and reject all that is unnecessary. And perhaps, in this practice, we are changed. Our grass is watered as we water that of our writing, our image making, our practice, our magazine.

From light to dark, rigid to supple, new to old, there is so much in between that is bright and vibrant and unexpected. The practice of our magazine has focused on being open to what we receive; being open to deeply listening to what is shared; being open to work taking us to new journeys. This volume, and this year, will be no different. We will continue tending to it as we have done, learning along the way, from past seasons and present ones.

And yet, I know it will be entirely different.
But still.
It will be watered.